Video surveillance cameras, guarding around every corner, never have any viewers. No emotions, no perceptual judgment, no impulsions. Tiny lens are capturing, passionless and aimless, fragments of stranger's lives, disjointed episodes with no ends or beginnings. Every second kilometers of taped empty rooms, office spaces and parking lots are wasted in the past. Tiny fragments of gloomy soundscapes, distant voices and movements, drowned in the granular noises; rudimental rhythms sometimes are coming to the surface, almost elusive, like seismic pushes deep down in the ground.
Often we can't identify that we're under permanent surveillance. Who knows, maybe this hasteless humming we can hear every night is not a fridge in the kitchen or a power block in the TV-set? Maybe it's a malfunctioned spy device. Lost transmissions are now being spot. Tune in